I've been reading Will Crawford's book
of poetry Fire in the Marrow (NeoPoiesis
Press, 2010). There are many things that can be said about it
and various avenues of approach. I wish to take a particular path
through his poems.
But first, let me sketch out why many poems being written today fail to affect the reader down in his marrow. Too many poems written these days are chunks of air. They don't
secrete the necessary calcium of lived context. They are special
effects without a foundation. A poem is presented as one drawn-out
sigh of transcendence or as a word-jumble trance or as a private
effusion with no perspective for the reader. That is not sufficient.
The results, oftener than not, are flimsy.
You got to have some bones. You got to
have a skeleton if you want to actually go somewhere, be
aesthetically ambulatory. You got to build up something – from
exposition to denouement. Otherwise, a poem just sits there and
squirms in its invertebrate juices. Spirit supervenes on bone, blood,
and tissue. Revelatory moments don't come cheap. Flame and
incandescence require some kindling.
Crawford's work has a vital structure.
Something can burn through it. I think his poems are literature.
This book opens with an eponymous prose
piece. Or maybe a fusion of prose with poetry. I reached a line that
stopped me in my eye-tracks – sent a burning shiver through my
retina. After “she” had spiraled around circles of emotional
hell:
There's a pure light
source pulsing in her eyes, it's real and empyreal.
This limpid image has broken out from
the poison honeycomb weave of intense experience. We as readers are
right to be impressed by this startling moment of organic, ocular
epiphany.
In “Bluebird Notes,” we are moving
through scene and sublimation, all the while to a musical complement.
The surfaces seen are raw yet have a dark beauty beneath. From
surface and dubious substance, a hot existential shimmer rises:
to be forgotten
then remembered again
in moving sheets of indigo
melody
in sustained bluebird
notes
in standing applause
like hard clean rain
The pressures of desire, depth, and
distance conspire to instantiate an exotic vision in “The River is
a Mirror.” Contemplating the looking-glass, which reflects the
viewer, we see what water pressure has also wrought into a visage – a lovely form, dazzling cipher of our own riddle. And Crawford's language is carried
on an exemplary cadence, of Poundian quality:
remember last November's
Diwali
a festival of lights
the heavens touched earth
that night
walking through
constellated gardens
moving through several
milky ways –
horse head nebulae
Tantalus no longer denied
by distance
Crawford takes us into a zone of
ancient harrowing in the poem “In the Shadow of Arrows.”
Intense man that Aguirre. Seeking mammon. A mad, sad tale that
reverberates unceasingly. Here, it's down to jungle cases. The
anti-epiphany is a heavy thing balanced between stoicism and despair. A millstone lodged in the diaphragm.
The brutal Fact pushes against all dream, delusion, and hope:
the blue flame which once
danced
quickly fading in his eyes
the hopeless weight of his
heart
all bloody and tribal
a mad, simple rhythm of
survival
In “Condensed Elegance,” a youth
has his normality interrupted by visions of loveliness – Barbara
Leigh – by jeweled, ineffable eyes – Julie Christie –
and by an open volume of feminine innocence – Laurie Bird.
It's how something changes, how a new
air of being rushes into you. When you encounter, say, the difference
of Barbara Leigh, up there on
the screen and to such a marked degree. Something new has occurred, a
complex vision of the sacred and the profane. You are changed. You
never forget a real revelation. And the poet imbues the event with a halo of wistful eternity:
realizing
she was her own event,
an
elaboration of Indian summer
lingering
with its own sweet electricity
If
you have the writer's fever, innate and slow-boiling, then write you
must. Until you write yourself into a dark corner. Lose your
bearings. Then comes a time to bust through the shadows accumulated
in that corner. A new word. A new way. A new muse. “A Bullet for
the Blind”:
after the amateurs are dissected
after the amateurs are dissected
after
a bloody beating heart is not detected
and
last rites are written
I
shall offer my writing hand to one of these new Ophelias
…..........
the
single crack that occasionally lets some light in
and
we'll dance
with
the graceful carelessness of children
there's a symphony in every synapse
flash of brass, snap of snare –
….........
a constructive melancholy
that understands the necessity
of succinct suicide notes
….........
the correct sunset for that dangling swan
In Fire in the Marrow, many such
moments rise up from these poems, subtly and unexpectedly. It's like
a form of matter changing states, from solid and grounded to a glowing
red-cell steam.
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